A Matter of Balance
by Wynn
Summary: Under orders from Dumbledore, Hermione learns how to fly. Her teacher? Not Harry, as planned, but none other than Draco Malfoy. Fears are confronted, truths revealed, & many snarky barbs exchanged.


Title: A Matter of Balance

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of _Harry Potter_. They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc.  No copyright infringement intended. 

AN: Written for cherii_emrei for her birthday.  Present tense, first person (Hermione) POV.  Many thanks go out to Slytherinlinzi for awesome beta-ing.  Feedback is a wonderful and much appreciated thing. 

A Matter of Balance

By: Wynn

            Flying is unnatural.  If people were meant to gallivant about the sky like enormous birds, then the universe would have been constructed without a little thing called gravity.  As it were, gravity rules us all, keeping our feet firmly attached to the ground where they should be.  At all times.  

            Except if you're a bird.

            Or a thestral.

            Or a wizard.

            If you're a wizard, you're expected to hurl yourself through the sky, at speeds reaching upwards of seventy kilometers an hour, on nothing more than a glorified tree limb.  And you're supposed to like it.  The wizarding world thinks flying on broomsticks is such a _grand _idea they built an entire sport around it.  A sport with balls specifically designed to knock people _off _their brooms, I might add.

            However, unlike the rest of the wizarding world, I most certainly do not like flying.  I passed first year Fundamentals of Flying with Madam Hooch of course, but after the last day of that term, I haven't so much as touched a broom with the intent to fly on it.  My personal philosophy is that if you absolutely, positively haveto fly, then it should be in the pressurized cabin of a 747 and notperched on a three foot long stick.  No matter how shiny it is.  

            Unfortunately for me, Dumbledore does not agree with my philosophy.  He believes that learning to fly proficiently is a beneficial and necessary skill for all wizards, especially in the upcoming months of war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters.  If one happens to be in a tight situation, such as standing in the midst of a pack of Death Eaters, all possible means of escape, including Apparating, Flooing, utilizing a port key, or, yes, flying away on a broomstick, should be available for use.  But really though, if one were in the midst of a pack of Death Eaters, flying away on a broomstick might not be the best way to escape.  After all, you can just as easily be hexed while on a broom as you can while on the ground.  And if you're on a broom you have to deal with falling _off_ of your shiny stick and plunging however many feet to your death along _with_ being cursed.

            Apparating away would be so much simpler.  And quicker.  And less deadly once you've mastered the art of notsplinching yourself.  But Ron pointed out that one might be in a place where Apparating is impossible, a place like Hogwarts, and once I overcame my shock that Ron remembered _anything _from _Hogwarts, a History_, I grudgingly admitted that he was right.

            And really, what sort of example would I set to the rest of the school if their Head Girl can't fly on a stupid broomstick?

            Thus on this crisp October morning, underneath a slate blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, I, Hermione Granger, stand in the middle of the Quidditch pitch next to a school-issue broom waiting for Harry to arrive to teach me how to fly.  I have my hair pulled back into a bun to prevent any stray strands from blinding me mid-flight; I have foregone my school robes in favor of a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a jumper, comfortable clothing not given to blowing up like a balloon with the right gust of wind; I have read three different books from the library detailing the mechanics of flying and feel confident in my grasp of said mechanics.

            I am ready.  I _am _ready.  Iam _ready_.  Flying is my friend.  The broomstick is my friend.  Harry is my friend.

            Draco Malfoy, however, is not my friend.  And instead of Harry Potter, my friend, walking around the nearest Quidditch stand and over towards me, it is Draco Malfoy, my not-friend, with his Nimbus 2001 gripped firmly in hand.

            Oh sure, Malfoy's not exactly my enemy anymore, even though he was for six and a half years.  Truthfully, he was Harry's enemy for six and a half years, and my friendship with Harry made me an enemy by association.  Malfoy's real enemy related hatred was always directed at Harry; he even went so far as to become a Death Eater to further cultivate his long-standing hatred of Harry.  But something happened between the end of fifth year when Malfoy joined with Voldemort and approximately March of sixth year when he approached Dumbledore for asylum.  No one save Dumbledore and Malfoy himself know what it was that finally drove him away from the Death Eaters, but whatever it was, it was enough to make the switch from evil to good more or less permanent.

            Well, maybe not _good_,per se.  Less evil definitely.

            Ron had, of course, objected rather heatedly to Malfoy's apparent defection from the dark side and subsequent acceptance by Dumbledore.  Harry and Neville were quite suspicious of Malfoy as well.  This was to be expected naturally.  Over six years of torment and hatred cannot be easily forgotten.  I also had my suspicions about the genuineness of Malfoy's desertion from the Death Eaters, but he was vouched for by Dumbledore, Snape, and, surprisingly, Professor McGonagall, and thus everyone, over the past seventh months, has mostly accepted the idea of Malfoy as an ally and not as an enemy.

            Even if they haven't exactly accepted the idea of Malfoy himself.

            Because while Malfoy has dedicated himself to fighting for Dumbledore instead of against him, he hasn't changed all that much from the Malfoy we all knew and loathed.  He's a bit quieter.  Less prone to dramatics.  But he's still rude and nasty when he wants to be, which seems to be quite often.  Not that I blame him really.  Everyone in school knows he's allied himself with Dumbledore, and thus with Harry, and because of this he's been labeled a traitor by nearly half of Slytherin house.  And most of the rest of the school either still hate him for six years of cruelty or are simply too terrified of him to even speak to him.

            It's not like I have any _sympathy _for Malfoy though.  Because I don't.  He chose to become a Death Eater in order to get revenge on Harry for sending Lucius to Azkaban.  He made his choice freely, and he should have to deal with consequences accordingly.  Even if he has finally made a smart, moral decision that resulted in a swift disowning by his family and a bounty on his head the size of Russia from Voldemort, all the while still dealing with distrust, suspicion, and hostility nearly everywhere he goes.

            "Fine morning we're having, isn't it, Granger?" Malfoy says, coming to a stop in front of me.  He has a wicked grin on his face and a gleam in his eyes that sets off warning signals in my brain.  He's dressed in his Slytherin Quidditch uniform, minus the green cape and clunky forearm guards.

            I look past Malfoy towards the school, vainly searching the grounds for any sign of Harry.  I find none, of course.  Malfoy simply stands and smiles his wicked smile throughout my vain search, and eventually I accept the inevitable, return my gaze back to Malfoy, and ask, "Where's Harry?"

            Malfoy shrugs.  "Off in some meeting with Dumbledore.  Or Ginny.  Or Hagrid.  I really couldn't be bothered to care about the whereabouts of the Boy Wonder.  I'm here to give you a flying lesson instead."

            "Harry asked _you _to show me how to fly?"

            "Granger, do you really think I'd do anything that green-eyed git asked me to do?"

            I can't help but sigh.  I reach down for my broom as I say, "Thanks but no thanks, Malfoy.  I'm sorry you trudged all the way down here, but I'll ask Ron to show me how to fly properly."

            "You just contradicted yourself there, Granger.  You put Weasley and the concept of flying properly together in the same sentence."

            "What's wrong with Ron's flying?  He's a competent-"

            "Exactly.  He's competent.  I'm better and thus better equipped to teach you how to fly."

            Irritation buzzes its way up my spine, setting my nerve endings on edge.  I take a step towards Malfoy as I say, "Well, what about Ginny?  She's a good flyer.  She can teach-"

            "She's good but not great.  _I _am great.  Don't you want to learn from the best?"

            "What about Harry?  You're not better than him, now are you?"

            Malfoy's jaw tightens, the only visible sign of the annoyance I know he feels.  "I said great, Granger.  Not the greatest.  But perfect Potter isn't here right now to catch you when you inevitably fall off your broom and land on your arse, now is he?  If you want to try flying solo, be my guest.  Just don't go whining to Madame Pomfrey about how it was _my _fault you broke your leg with your alarming lack of skills, alright?  I offered my assistance and you declined.  Remember that when you're recuperating."  

            I reign in the impulse to smack Malfoy with the end of my broom.  "Fine.  Fine.  Teach me.  Grace me with your glorious wisdom of the finer arts of flying."

            Malfoy smirks in triumph and places his broom down on the ground.  He gestures for me to do the same with a wave of his hand.

            "I thought I was supposed to fly _on _the broomstick, Malfoy.  Not stand about and watch it lie on the ground."

            "Are you capable of shutting up for one second, Granger?  I'm trying to teach you how to fly here."

            I sigh again and drop my broom onto the ground, where it lands with a muffled thunk scant centimeters away from a mud puddle.  I watch Malfoy close his eyes and rub a hand across the bridge of his nose.  His mouth moves slightly, and I think he may be counting to ten.  

            "Okay, lesson the first," he says once he opens his eyes, "do not drop your broom like that.  Ever again."  

            "Why not?  It's just a broom.  It's not like it has any little broom feelings to hurt."

            "Would you fling your wand around the same way you just flung your broom?  No, you wouldn't.  A broom works under the same principals as a wand, Granger.  It chooses you.  You don't choose it.  And tossing your broom about won't win you any points in its favor."

            "Should I say I'm sorry?  Buy the broom a pacifying pint of butterbeer?  Would that win me points, Malfoy?  Or do brooms not like butterbeer?"

            "Your wit astounds me, Granger.  It truly does.  Whoever said that the stick rammed up your arse prohibits you from having a sense of humor was obviously mistaken."

            "And whoever said that your distinct lack of coloring makes you look like a flobberworm was obviously mistaken, too."

            One corner of Malfoy's mouth twitches in what, in an alternate universe, might be considered a smile, and I can't help but stare.  Where's the vitriol?  The sneer?  The scathing remarks about my teeth, hair, or heritage?  I tilt my head to the side and lean towards Malfoy to better assess the potential state of amusement, a gasp escaping my lips as I realize there _is _amusement in his eyes.  At least it's not sparkling or twinkling or shining amusement or any such nonsense like that, but it's amusement nonetheless.  Malfoy is amused, which means that Malfoy _must _have a sense of humor somewhere beneath the arrogant exterior, which means that Malfoy might actually be human after all.

            He catches me gaping and arches an eyebrow.  "Is there something wrong, Granger?  Something you'd like to share with the class?" 

             "No, there's nothing wrong," I say with a shake of my head.  There's nothing wrong if I've gone insane.  Or if you've gone insane.  Or if I'm in an alternate universe.  "I'm perfectly fine."  Or possibly insane, but that's not the issue here.  It's _an_ issue but it's not _the_ issue.  _The _issue is your burgeoning and frankly unsettling amusement.  That and the smiling.

            Pushing all thoughts of insanity and alternate universes and rambling interior monologues to the back of my mind, I look down at my broom and say, "So, what do I do next?"  Better to focus on the first issue, Hermione, and not on the _new _issue at hand.  Much, much better.

            Malfoy watches me for a long moment before he shakes his head and holds one hand out over his broom.  "Hold your hand out like this and say, 'Up.'"  His Nimbus slaps into his gloved hand with a resounding smack.  The half-formed Malfoy version of a smile returns to his face while he waits for me to do the same.

            A frown forms on _my_ face, whether from the smiling or from the instruction I haven't the faintest idea.  "Why can't I just pick it up and sit on it?"

            "Is that your broom?"

            "No.  I don't have a broom.  This is a school broom."

            "There's your answer."  I remain silent, waiting for an elaboration.  I blink at Malfoy; he blinks back at me.  A couple seconds pass and then he sighs.  "Like I said before Granger, the broom chooses the wizard.  If you try to sit on it now, it could throw you off faster than you can say 'library.'"

            "Your point?  If you have one."

            "Think of the broom as a hippogriff.  You need to show it the proper respect as you approach it.  The broom has to feel you out, assess what sort of person you are, before it allows you to ride it."

            It's my turn to arch an eyebrow.  "_You're _giving me lessons on the proper way to approach a hippogriff?  Buckbeak bit you, not me.  And I thought you said a broom was a wand.  Now it's a hippogriff.  It seems someone is getting his metaphors confused."

            "First, Buckbeak was a beastly bird.  It clearly had no semblance of taste if it allowed Potter and Hagrid close to it and not me.  Second, do you alwayshave to challenge everything I say?  I happen to know what I'm talking about, which is more than you can claim right now.  This lesson is for _you_, remember?"

            I remember, a fact I have no intention of relaying to Malfoy.  He already has the upper hand, what with actually knowing how to fly as well as having insight into his warped, smiling mind.  I have no intention of adding fuel to the fire by admitting that he's right.  

            Instead I cast a withering glare in his direction, thrust my hand out over the broom, and yell, "Up!"

            The broom does not move.

            Stupid broom.

            I try and fail to raise the broom again.  And again.  And again.

            On my fourth attempt, I see a smirk daring to form on Malfoy's face.

            "You need to relax, Granger."

            The broom still does not move.

            Malfoy, however, does smirk.

            Stupid Malfoy.

            "And you need to drop dead," I snap back.  His eyes widen at my remark, and I flush in embarrassment at my loss of control.  I hate being unable to do this, to fly on this idiotic stick, something a blindfolded three year old could do.  I hate that Malfoy knows that I can't fly, and I hate that he's the one who's trying to help me and I hate that I don't know _why_ he's trying to help because there's nothing in this for him except the possibility of watching me fall on my arse.  And I hate that most of all.  

            I fold my arms across my chest and swallow hard.  "I… I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to snap at you.  I… It… The thought of flying is a bit terrifying, if you must know."

            "I'm beginning to realize that."  He slips into silence, his eyes flickering from the broom to me and back again.  I refuse to squirm under his assessing gaze and meet his stare head on, cognizant of the fact that I have just revealed a vulnerability to Draco Malfoy, the reigning prince of exploitation and manipulation.  I jump back as he bends down and snatches my recalcitrant broom off the ground.  He thrusts the broom at me and says, "Let's take a walk."

            "Where?"

            "Trust me, Granger," he says as he spins around and strides across the pitch, gesturing for me to follow with a flick of his hand.

            Trust him.  And it's said in complete seriousness, too, with nary a smirk or a sneer in sight.

            Which is probably why, against my better judgment, I decide to follow Malfoy instead of turning right around and returning to the castle.

            Either that or I have truly gone insane.  Both are viable options right about now.

            Malfoy exits the pitch and begins to circle around the Forbidden Forest.  I start after him, hands clutching my broom, mind whirling with curiosity as to what sort of madness has seized control of Malfoy's brain.  I only have to walk around the bend of the trees to see _exactly _what sort of madness has taken over Malfoy.

            A madness of the aquatic variety, apparently.

            Malfoy stands next to the lake, self-satisfied half-smile on his face, watching me slow to a stop a few dozen feet from the water's edge.  Faced with the ludicrous image of Malfoy and the smile and the lake, all I can do is close my eyes and sigh.  This really is just too much.  As if this morning's planned activity wasn't already dangerous enough.  Now Malfoy has to add death by drowning to the mix.

            "Granger?  Granger?  What's the problem now?"

            Without opening my eyes, I say, "If you think I'm going anywhere near the lake, _especially_ with a broom, you mustbe crazy."

            "If you fall off your broom over the lake, all you're going to be is wet.  No broken bones.  No face full of dirt and grass.  I'm not seeing the problem."

            "The problem?!  Have you forgotten about drowning-"

            "You can swim, can't you?"

            "-or the fact that there's a giant squid, hoards of grindylow, and other aquatic life in that lake that probably won't be thrilled with me crashing into their habitat over and over again?"

            "It's not like you'd be setting up permanent residence.  If you fall, you swim out or I pull you out.  Granger-"  

            "No.  I-"

            "_No_.  Whatever you're about to say, I don't want to hear it."  Malfoy turns his back to me and mounts his broom.  His voice is hard, like granite, rough and blunt and unforgiving.  "This is the end of the discussion.  Either get on your broom or go away.  I'm not going to coddle you anymore."

            "You," I say as I stomp towards Malfoy, "are the most insufferable, arrogant, self-righteous bastard I have ever met.  And I've met Voldemort."

            A cocky grin appears on Malfoy's face.  "Feeling's mutual, Granger.  Now, are you going to get on or not?  I'm bored."

            There's nothing left to do but throw my leg over the broom and hold on for dear life.  I am not about to let this broom or Malfoy get the better of me.  Even if it kills me.  Which, in all honesty, might very well happen.  Feet still on the ground, I ask, "How do you know the broom won't throw me off?"

            Malfoy looks at me with an expression I can't quite define.  There's no sympathy or pity in his gaze, no mocking derision for my fear, no arrogant gleam in his eyes for being able to fly while I can't.  It's a look far older than Malfoy himself, one more comfortable on Professor Dumbledore or Lupin's careworn faces than on Malfoy's smooth, pale skin.  It's a look I'd seen haunt Sirius and Snape on more than one occasion.  "I don't.  But if it happens, you'll get back on.  We all do."

            And I can't deny the curiosity that rages inside me to know what happened to Malfoy to put that shaded look on his face or that harrowed edge to his voice.  But I only nod once and ease down onto the broom, pulling my feet up beneath me.  The broom and I wobble in the air, both unsure of our faith in the other, before settling down to a tense hover.  "How people ride on these things for an extended period of time, I really don't know.  At least you get one of those hard little plastic seats on a bicycle."

            "It's a matter of balance, Granger," Malfoy says as he spins a lazy circle in front of me.  "And confidence.  The broom doesn't matter, not in the end.  Like a wand, it's simply a device used to focus magic through.  Certain brooms, like certain wands, are better attuned to some wizards more than others, but the magic needed to fly is in the wizard, not the broom.  All that's necessary is the confidence to bring it forth and use it.  You want to go forward, you will yourself forward.  You want to go backward, you will yourself backwards.  Same with up, down, side to side, any direction you might want to go.  The broom obeys your will and takes you there."  

            Malfoy pauses before me and the cocky grin is back.  "Quite simple, really.  Any three year old could figure it.  Actually, a trained monkey could probably learn to fly since Weasley's figured out how."

            "Malfoy-" But before I can complete my thought, Harry's voice rings out through the clear morning, breaking my concentration on Malfoy and the broom.  The broom shakes beneath me and suddenly I'm flying through the air, crash landing half in and half out of the lake.  

            "Hermione!"

            Pushing to a sitting position, I wipe a glob of tangled wet hair from my eyes and see Harry rushing towards me, Firebolt in his hands.  I swipe at a spot of mud on the end of my nose, and out of the corners of my eyes, I see Malfoy dismount his broom.  Harry reaches me and helps me up from the ground.

            "Are you all right?" he asks, grimacing as he takes in my bedraggled appearance.  "I'm sorry I'm so late.  Professor McGonagall kept me-"

            "I'm fine, Harry.  Just a bit wet and mud covered but no worse for the wear.  And if I see anything resembling a smile on your face, Malfoy," I say, casting a glance in his direction and catching the faint smirk on his face before it's quickly smoothed away, "I'll hex you into the next century, got it?"

            The most innocent of innocent expressions graces Malfoy's face.  "I wouldn't dream of such a thing, Granger."

            Hand on my elbow, Harry turns towards Malfoy.  His brows draw together in suspicious confusion as he says, "Malfoy, what are you doing here?  I thought you were supposed to meet Snape this morning and work on your pensieve."

            "I am and I will.  I had something I needed to get first."

            "Something you needed to get?"

            My hands stop picking at the mud on my jeans as my breath catches in my chest, and I wait for Malfoy to answer.

            "Yes.  A memory."

            "A memory?"

            I want to look at Malfoy, but I can't.  I want to know, but I don't.  My heart pounds, and my blood rushing through my veins is loud like a waterfall.

            "Yes, Potter, a memory.  I needed… I needed something different to put in my pensieve."  Malfoy pauses, but Harry doesn't say anything, and I can't breathe.  My mind spins in my head, running races with Malfoy's words and the memories of this morning.  "It's a matter of balance, Potter.  Surely you of all people understand this.  Too many bad memories can make a person batty.  I needed something other than horrible to add, and you know how much I love to fly."

            I chance a glance at Malfoy, but he's not looking at me.  Harry is, but Malfoy's not, and puzzle pieces fall into place, get up, and rearrange again in a quick change pattern that leaves me breathless.  Malfoy turns and walks away, and I tear out of Harry's grasp and after him, catching up with him next to the Forbidden Forest.  He stops as I step into his path.  He waits for me to speak, but I don't know the words to say.  I don't know the words, but I can learn.  It's all a matter of balance and confidence, and if I try and fail, say the worst I could possibly say and crash down in a flaming blaze of glory, I'll try again.

            Besides, if Malfoy can change directions mid-flight, then so can I.

            "What are you doing tomorrow?" I ask, but I don't wait for an answer.  The words fall from my lips, graceless, stumbling, wobbling in the air between us, but they catch flight nonetheless.  "I think I've reached my limit with airborne antics today, but I'm fairly sure learning to fly proficiently means being able to sit on a broom for more than thirty seconds at a time."

            There's a moment in which he hesitates and I think I've miscalculated, that the events of this morning _are _just coincidence, the he just happened to cross my path on the pitch and thought watching me fall off my broom and on my arse would be a fun way to pass the time, but then he smiles his Malfoy smile and says, "Nine o'clock okay with you?"

*                      *                      *


End file.
